The Distance Between
by the right hand of madness
Summary: Oneshot. SnakeOtacon. Lime. Light fluff. Small mention of blood. Pretanker. At first a reluctant gesture, uncomfortable, but then it grew to be natural, unconscious to a point that we stopped noticing.


Disclaimer: I do not own this series or any of its characters nor do I profit from this story in any monetary fashion.

Warning: Minor mention of blood. Shounen ai.

_The Distance Between_

His hands are rough and calloused, large and secure.

It was just a simple touch at first, but I noticed it like it was the sun – a sympathetic spirit. His hand on my shoulder, a kind gesture with a warmth – human warmth – I hadn't known for so long.

Then it was a pat on the back in good humor, comfort – a friendly gesture, an understanding soul. He cared about me, without words, but a touch meant more to me than any words could.

The smiles and the soft chuckles came next, closely followed by amused grins and cocky smirks. The distance between us began to close.

Words were at first caustic, dark, and bitter. Mine were skittish, cautious, afraid – afraid to offend. Stammered apologies and nervous thanks – he was intimidating. He was cold and emotionless or dark and brooding – except for his hand. It was warm. At first a reluctant gesture, uncomfortable, but then it grew to be natural, unconscious to a point that we stopped noticing.

He was gruff, harsh at times, and often distant, but kinder as time passed. In his own ways he was cautious and uncertain, but as the distance between us grew smaller, everything about him became a comfort – even the annoying habits of his smoking too much or dropping his sopping wet towels in the middle of the floor. A companion, a friendly presence.

Insightful, thoughtful – it wasn't that he had nothing to say, but he was reluctant to voice his opinions. I have a natural and sometimes overly-eager curiosity. Sometimes things escape my mouth before they pass through my brain and I'm terribly prone to embarrassing moments, but he never really seemed to mind. Then his voice came out, not simply grunts or small answers of acquiescence or declination. He was intelligent – though admittedly subject-specific – and made for good conversation, though such occurrences were rather infrequent. He had a dismissive attitude towards things he deemed insignificant or not worth his attention, but he still managed to listen to my chattering even when I ran away with myself.

He was patient and impatient and we certainly tested each other's nerves upon several occasions, but it was a compatible existence. And then it was a comfortable one.

I remember the first time I heard him laugh.

It was rough, low, dark, rich and warm.

Just like him.

And then the distance between us grew even smaller.

I worked long hours searching for clues, hints of new Metal Gears. Sleep would evade me for several days and my eyes would grow tired from the blue glow of the screens in front of me. And then when I'd venture out of my room, there'd be a fresh pot of coffee waiting for me, even if he wasn't in sight.

Occasionally he'd pry me from my work with a casual invitation of a meal consisting of something over than re-hydrated noodles or Pocky. He was a good cook, regardless of how little I had for comparison. I suppose living in middle of Alaska will do that to a person – force them to learn how to cook.

It made me realize, though, how little I really knew about him.

Then one night I dreamt of her.

I hadn't allowed me thoughts to dwell on her for fear of the pain. But dreams come unbidden.

I think that I was shaking when I woke.

His hand rested firmly on my shoulder.

I can't remember, but I think I cried a little.

He stood beside me but didn't ask.

I didn't – couldn't – say anything.

His hand was warm, but his arms were warmer. They were strong and secure, comforting, assuring.

He didn't say anything, but his touch meant more to me than any words could.

The distance between us closed even further that day.

He had his own demons, a darkness that haunted him in his sleep. He never said anything and I never asked, but it was a thread to connect us – troubles of unspoken pasts. There was a lot we didn't talk about, but now the silence wasn't so deafening. It was pleasant. We didn't need words and when we had them, it was nice.

It began with a simple touch – a sturdy hand on a trembling shoulder – a touch that was like the sun.

And then I grew to know what warmth really was.

It wasn't until later that I realized that his warmth could burn.

I'm not a very observant sort of person. I often let myself wander with my thoughts or focus my attention to the point of forgetting that there's a world all around me. I never noticed his eyes watching me. He is a stealth, but even when he was blatantly staring, I didn't really see.

I was content to bathe in the rays of the sun or lock myself away in the shadows of my room before the blue glow of artificial light. I never realized how small the distance between us had grown.

There were missions – nothing major.

They brought rushes of adrenaline and long lulls of boredom.

I went to get him once.

It wasn't entirely necessary. He would have been fine without me. He didn't need me, but I wanted to go. It would save time. That's what I thought.

It didn't go as smoothly as planned.

At that time, I, well, I had some difficulties with stomaching blood back then.

I froze.

I could hear his voice calling out to me in my mind, but it was hazy – distorted.

We came close that day – too close – to losing everything.

I still remember the blood splattered on the windshield, the sound of a body hitting the pavement, the screeching of tires, and the scent of burnt rubber.

I couldn't apologize enough.

I think I hated myself that day.

His voice was angry and his eyes were burning.

But his arms were warm and strong and secure.

I went into basic VR training. It was harsh and grueling and frightening at times, but he helped me, coached me, pushed me to become stronger, not as a fighter, but as a person.

He was angry that I'd been so careless, so afraid, angry that he hadn't taught me not to be, angry that even for a moment, I had been scared of him. He took the guilt upon himself even as he yelled at me.

If I hadn't been so shaken that day, if I had seen instead of simply noticed the way his eyes were looking at me, I would have seen the guarded fear behind the anger.

Love only means something if it can be protected.

I didn't remember those words then, but I remember them now.

He was the great hero, the legendary soldier, but even he couldn't be two places at once. He wanted me to be able to protect myself until he could make it back to me.

I didn't realize that then, but I realize it now.

He taught me a special handshake after my first successful completion of a solo VR mission – a comrade, a friend.

I think I felt it then – my hand clasped firmly with his – a warmth that was hotter than anything I'd ever felt before.

I didn't know it then, didn't know what it was, but I began to pay closer attention.

His touch burned.

A hand on the shoulder.

A pat on the back.

A careless brush as we passed each other on our way in and out.

I could feel the heat even when his presence had long since left the room.

The sun wasn't just warm, it burned.

His eyes burned.

They sought me out, caught me unaware, watched in silence.

I hadn't noticed them watching me before.

I hadn't noticed him watching me.

For him, it had become a habit and I was the one that never noticed.

I paid even closer attention once I began to realize.

He had learned my habits. He knew what I liked and didn't like. He knew when to be close and when to stay away. He knew when to say something and when to say nothing.

We had drifted together, grown closer.

I had been drawn to him, though he insists that he had been the one drawn to me.

I just never noticed.

I'm not a very observant person, after all.

I spent so much time locked away in my room, bound to the computer in front of me I never saw the things he saw.

I hadn't even noticed when he stopped calling me Otacon, when a name I hated became a familiar greeting.

Even worse, I hadn't noticed when I stopped calling him Snake.

But he noticed.

He's highly observant.

I bet he's observant even in his sleep.

"I'm going out," he said one day.

It was typical.

I was hunched over the table, glaring down at the papers scattered furiously about me.

He gave a soft chuckle and rested his hand on my shoulder.

"Don't let it bury you."

I grumbled something incoherent, thoroughly annoyed at the numbers in front of me.

He kissed me on the cheek, grabbed his jacket, and left.

I continued to shuffle through the mess consuming the kitchen table and for half an hour further I let it consume me.

And then when I got up to refill my empty mug, I stopped and lifted my hand to my face.

I could still feel the warmth from his lips.

I stared at nothing for a few moments as my mind fought desperately to catch up.

It had been so natural, I hadn't noticed.

My whole face suddenly burned.

I remember setting the mug down and racing for the front door, without even a thought thrown to the shoes I wasn't wearing.

When I opened the door, he was leaning on the railing of the stairs leading down, smoking a cigarette.

"I was thinking Sandra's for lunch."

He knew what I liked.

"That sounds good," I said.

He handed me my shoes and my jacket.

"Don't forget to lock the door."

He knew my habits.

He stamped out his cigarette butt in the ashtray of the nearest trash bin.

"The sun feels nice today," I commented.

"Sure does."

It was all so natural, I hadn't even noticed that the distance between us wasn't there anymore.

- fin -

The Right Hand of Madness -


End file.
